


When Beggars Die, There are No Comets Seen.

by Loki_Laufeyson



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Laufeyson/pseuds/Loki_Laufeyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: </p><p>Arthur, holding a dying Martin in his arms, screaming at Douglas to do something clever and save him, because Douglas always knows what to do to make everything better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Beggars Die, There are No Comets Seen.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4885.html?thread=7778325#cmt7778325)
> 
> Un- Beta'd so apologies for that.

Arthur’s hands flutter uselessly over Martin’s body, over Skip, his Skip. His Skip with scarlet billows blossoming across his chest, with tears in his eyes and his skin paling like he’s fading away- fading to nothing. 

“Hey, Skip. Hey, hey, you’re okay, see? I’m here.” Arthur grabs at Martin’s jacket and hauls him into his lap, envelopes him in his body in some fruitless attempt at comfort. 

Martin’s lips part and he attempts to speak, choking and spluttering instead and Arthur just doesn't understand how there could be this much _blood_. There’s just so much. There’s a little bit on his lips now too, creeping from the corner of his mouth, trying to escape, and Arthur rubs it away on his sleeve.

 _There now, all better, all fine._ he thinks, even as he’s covered in Martin’s blood, even as Martin’s hand scramble for something to grasp onto and he’s pressing red fingerprints all over Arthur’s nice white shirt that his mum had just ironed this morning. 

His head snaps up. Arthur looks to Douglas who’s almost as white as the dying Captain. Figure trembling. Right hand holding his mobile phone an arms length away like it might savage him. And he is staring down at Martin. Just staring with pupils blown wide and black like they might swallow all the light around them. 

Martin’s eyes are just glazed over, just shy of empty. 

“Douglas, Douglas you've got to do something.” Arthur shouts. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t need too. This is Douglas Richardson, he’ll fix it. God loves Douglas Richardson, Douglas had said himself. 

Martin might be rotten with luck but as long as Douglas was there the earth would bend and the heavens would blaze forth.

“I’ve called an ambulance.” Douglas returns, not in his usual, swaggering, confident baritone but instead quiet and small and with this awful wobble. But Arthur can forgive him for not sounding like himself because he doesn't either- he thought he’d go all high and squeaky like when he’s stressed but instead he sounds _fractured_. Loud and desperate but cracked like glass. And it’s been so long since he’s been anything other than happy that he doesn't really connect with this panic, this ghastly, nauseating feeling of dread that scratches away at him. It feels like fear. 

“No, no. There isn't enough time. You have to do something. Please.”

Douglas knows there isn't enough time, Martin’s last light is stuttering- failing. His hands have stopped trying to find purchase on anything, his head is lolling on his neck like his strings have been cut and Arthur keeps on shaking him and shaking him to stop his eyes from shutting. 

“Arthur- I don’t- I can’t do anything.”

“Of course you can! You always can.” Arthur is howling at him now, screaming at him now.

“There’s nothing to do- nothing I can do- nothing- God. Oh God.” His voice breaks on a sob and Arthur can’t look at him. That’s not Douglas Richardson. Douglas is the antihero. The arrogant saviour. He’d make sure Martin wouldn’t die and then he’d demand the cheese tray for a month for doing so. He wouldn’t just stand and watch. He wouldn’t cry. 

“Douglas, you’ve got to. You can do anything. Douglas, please just do something clever, do something brilliant, please, please-“ Arthur’s roars turn incoherent as he pulls Martin to his chest, holds him tightly as if that might stop his heart from slowing, might cause his breaths to become a little less shallow. But Douglas stays silent. 

_No, no, no, no, no, no._ Arthur thinks and whispers to the air and mutters into Martin’s neck, ignoring the blood- the gallons and gallons of it staining everything. _Skip’s going to be so annoyed when he realises what he’s done to his uniform. All that red to wash off his nice epaulets. What’s mum going to say when she sees? Silly Martin._

Then there are hands, Douglas’ hands, prying Arthur away from Martin- who has gone all boneless, whose eyes have shut- and pulling him against his own chest. His lips are moving, Arthur realises, but the world's on mute.

It takes him a long, breathless moment to realise the scene has been bathed in flashing light, red and blue and red and blue and-

But it’s been far too long and it’s far too late.


End file.
